


(how are you going to) hide until you disappear

by summerstorm



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Masturbation, Phone Calls, Porn Battle, Rain, Stream of Consciousness, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a light drizzle muddying up Aria's bedroom window, and she's lying upside down in bed, watching the width of the glass fill up with trickles of water. Coda to 1x07 "The Homecoming Hangover."</p>
            </blockquote>





	(how are you going to) hide until you disappear

**Author's Note:**

> For the Porn Battle X, based on the prompts 'rain' and 'found.' Title from "Nothing &amp; Nowhere" by Emily Haines.

There's a light drizzle muddying up Aria's bedroom window, and she's lying upside down in bed, watching the width of the glass fill up with trickles of water. The dripping is a companionable, reassuring sound — like no matter what happens, she can trust the rain to have that effect on her.

She's been going over the situation with her family since her mom called after dinner. Every other worry has stayed mostly quiet, only creeping up to be pushed down with a muttered, self-addressed _shut up_, but now that she's focused on the weather, her train of thought takes a leap to Ezra.

It occurs to her there's more than one thing she can trust to give her a certain peace of mind when she's anxious. She can't sleep, anyway, and doing anything at all is more likely to tire her down enough to get a few hours in before morning than staring at a blurred-out view of her street and going over every fight she's had or overheard in the past few weeks — year — will.

She adds a second pillow under her head and takes a deep breath. She's cold — not physically, but in that way she knows if she just sticks a hand down her pants, it will take forever, and she'll end up frustrated and annoyed. Besides, build-up is always nice. And her left hand is comfortable where it's resting on her thigh, and it's easy enough to keep the other on her stomach, fingertips laid out over the hem of her sweater, right next to a strip of bare skin.

Ezra is — she has no idea where, which makes up a good part of her problems. She doesn't know if it's different for him, if she's the only one who's so invested in _them_ she can barely go to sleep at night when she doesn't see him as much — as _little_ — as she's used to. He's running away from this, but she's still thinking about him. He hasn't even left her thoughts on a boyfriend capacity, because she — had, until he pulled a disappearing stunt, a strong belief he'd realize forcing himself away from her wouldn't help matters at this point, this deep in.

Her fingers tap softly on her belly, mimicking the patterns of the rain.

She's going to see him again. He can't leave without a word — he's not that kind of person. They're not that kind of couple, that kind of fighters or avoiders. Leaving like this is actively _hurting_, and it's hurting without owning up to it. It's a dirty trick. He's going to come back and find a moment to talk to her, just the two of them somewhere — anywhere — his apartment, or after class, or sneaking into a backstreet in his car. And she knows, wherever it is, something's going to happen, because he left without a word, and she wants to yell at him, and she wants to smack some consideration into him, empathy, bravery, whatever it is he's forgone, but even in her fantasies she'll say a few hurtful things and fizzle out, because she wants to kiss him again, wants a hug, wants to tear his clothes to shreds, wants to hold him down until he's the one keeping her there.

She loosens the string of her black sweats, teases under the waistband with her nails. Squeezes her thigh, and slides her thumb down, pressing upwards on the inside of it, then further away. It tightens the buzzing in her stomach, builds a different kind of tension than she's been feeling all day long, or twists that into something almost pleasant.

She wants to keep her thumb there, do the stealth recon thing again, but her chest feels heavy, needy, and she wants to keep her other hand inside her pants more — the room _has_ lost some of its warmth to the chilly fall breeze, and her fingers raise goosebumps on her skin as they warm up. So she slips that other hand under her sweater, under the tops she's wearing underneath, and holds one of her breasts, giving it a few light squeezes before switching to the other one. It feels like a hug she's been waiting for, which doesn't really do much for build-up, but it helps with the anxiety, helps her worries quieten.

When Ezra did this to her, she felt like she was _dying_.

She remembers they ate on the floor in his apartment, and she got melted brie on a corner of her mouth, and they got carried away and half the food ended up in the fridge or the trash. And they got carried away because that is what they _do_.

Maybe it's that they can't — couldn't — _can't_ even touch when they're not completely alone and confident they are, and they can't be as often as she'd like, but they always get carried away, and she's never regretted it. It may not be an ideal situation, but it's _good_. It's better. It's Ezra crawling over to her with a stupid grin on his face, something he couldn't do in any nice restaurant he might want to take her to, and licking her mouth open until she grasps at his shoulders and pulls him down to the floor, feeling short of breath.

But what she remembers vividly, what she's calling to mind as her hand slides further down inside her underwear, is how ridiculously cute he looked when he pulled back, rubbing her sides, and asked if it would be really out of line if his hands went any higher. And she remembers how ridiculous she felt shaking her head, and how she surprised herself moaning when he touched her breasts over her dress, and squirming when he reached her bare skin, later — already feeling just this side of delirious from the moment he'd warned her.

It would have been nice of him to tell her he wouldn't be at school, too. They're not together, but they're dealing with a kind of bizarre break-up, one where she needs to know if she's never going to see him again, and one where he owes her at least that much. That knowledge. Even a text would have been better than no explanation whatsoever.

After all, she knows first-hand he's good at warnings.

She wishes they'd gotten further that night, or ever, than half-dressed groping, because she'd love to know if that extends to less clearheaded moments — if he'd say something before opening her up with his fingers — if he'd have the presence of mind not to come in her mouth if she went down on him — if he'd make sure to wake her up before kissing his way down her stomach in the morning. If it'd happen every time or stop after a number.

Her stomach forms defined, distinct shapes as she inhales and exhales. Her throat's a little dry, but she hears a clear whimper when her fingers brush sensitive places on their way down, and she holds her breath as she slips one inside herself, shallow, just feeling, testing, gathering her slickness to spread over, make everything an easier slide.

Her heart jumps to her throat when she hears thunder roar, stupidly, but she lifts her hips into her hand as she calms down, lets out a broken puff of laughter.

Even more stupidly, she barely startles when, not thirty seconds later, her phone rings.

She groans — it's _late_, and she's into this. There are about six people she'd pick up the phone for right now and there's no way this is when they'd choose to call, but it's within reach to check, so she drags it into view.

It's Ezra.

It's Ezra's landline, which means he's not hiding somewhere — or hiding from her.

She breathes out in relief, and moves her palm a little, rubbing down. She can't stop, but she can't ignore the call, and it's not really hard to answer with her left hand. Just doing that is a thrill, and she feels torn between speeding up on what she's doing or rushing through the call. She doesn't want him to freak out, but she doesn't want to wait either. That's not as easy a decision.

"I'm sorry," he says before she gets any words out. She tries to refocus her eyes — there's a soaked green leaf on the corner of her window, standing among smaller, deader brown ones. The rain washes down on it, but it stays there anyway, like it's raining paste instead of water.

She knows she should — be mad, just show him this matters to her, it matters that he stays around, in Rosewood, that he doesn't just pack up and leave even if it seems like the most sensible option, but she doesn't have the strength to talk, let alone pick up a fight. And it's late, and she doesn't want to wake anybody, and it feels like a bad move to raise her voice when she's — oh, _god_ — so she whispers, "I'm glad you are."

"Did I wake you up? You sound—"

"It's late," she says, a little louder, and drives two fingers in. It's so easy to imagine what his would feel like while talking to him. She can't think of anything else. They'd be thicker, make her feel fuller than hers, but he'd be careful with her — he'd wrap his other hand around her hip, or her thigh, or her belly, and his skin would feel rougher than hers, on hers, different, somebody else's.

"Sorry."

She laughs, dry and quiet and resigned. She likes his voice in her ear. It feels almost like he's here, like he could do this for her, right now. Or hold her as she does. Or watch her. "You already said that," she tells him. "My throat's sore and I'm tired and I've had a really, really bad day and I don't feel strong enough to do this right now. I don't want to go into — " Into how she felt when he wasn't around and nobody even knew where he'd gone and — she just doesn't want to go into it. "Into anything."

"If you want to go back to sleep, we can—"

"No." This is probably wrong on about fourteen hundred different levels, but she needs him to stay on the line. "I want to hear your voice."

There's a soft laugh on the other end, and he says, "I didn't think you would."

She shrugs — he can't see her, but she does anyway, and then she crooks a finger inside her and muffles a gasp on the inside of her wrist. "Neither did I."

Two in the morning is not a good conversation hour for anyone, and she's thankful, right now, that he decides to do something she'll hate having let him do in the morning: not actually explaining anything. She even zones out a few times, just hearing the timbre of his voice, missing the meaning, the words. The rhythm of his speech is steady, but shifts slowly over sentences, back and forth, and she finds herself drawing her fingers out and higher, echoing his cadence on herself, just shapes and strokes and just — there.

The things she catches make sense together — it feels like he says he needed to think a million times and half-explains it at thousand. It's something else she'd maybe find irritating, unnecessarily, deviatingly repetitive, but she appreciates it now, the chance to focus on something else. He _rambles_ about how he has no idea what the right thing to do is, and how there's this job he got offered somewhere and if he takes it, he won't be able to change his mind, and he doesn't even know if there's a way not to screw anything up.

"If I couldn't hear you breathe, I'd think you'd fallen asleep."

Any uncertainty that not being with her is the only possible way to deal with everything is a good sign for her. She says as much, and his voice cuts off on a chuckle. She pictures him biting the side of his bottom lip into his mouth, and has to hold back a whimper.

"What are you doing?" he says, sounding somewhere between amused and baffled.

"Listening." She sighs. "Talk me through this," she blurts out.

"Talk you through—" Her fingers rub harder, faster, and this time she whimpers into the phone. "—oh my god."

It's not even embarrassing to let him know what she's doing. It's a relief, in a way. It doesn't change anything, except he can hang up if he thinks she's an awful person for not telling him earlier, or for doing this without asking first, or just for telling him at all, dropping it on him like this. She wouldn't blame him for that.

The call doesn't click off, but he shuts down.

"It doesn't have to — I just need you to keep talking," so she offers, "A couple of minutes ago, you said — something about how you couldn't ignore my age since you found out about it but it didn't seem to matter—" She breaks off. She's not sure where she was going with it, only that it stuck in her head even though she doesn't remember the exact words, may not even have been listening at the time.

"Have you ever—" His voice sounds guarded, like he's trying to pretend the last minute didn't happen just to give her what she wants. "Have you ever just _liked_ something about someone that you felt like no one in their right mind would like?"

"You think it's hot that I'm — underage?"

"No," Ezra says, "I think it's illegal. But it's a part of you, and it's not a part of you I don't like. It should — it should put me off—"

"That's not—" she begins.

"I should have gotten off the phone already. It should at least freak me out that I know what you're doing and you've dragged me into it," he goes on. His tone softens, slows down as he adds, "I can't stop thinking about you. Even when you're not there, when I don't see you for a while, I just can't stop. And now I can't shut my brain down and stop thinking about you getting yourself off."

"You don't have to," she says. The wind is blowing strong — there are branches thrashing on the wall behind her headboard, but she's so close she barely hears dull smashing. Her hearing's clouded by the ringing of her blood in her ears, the sound of her heartbeat, the echo of every word Ezra's said since he called. The idea that, even if he can't actually see her, he's picturing her doing this.

"I should," he says.

"This doesn't — it doesn't have to change anything. It can just — be."

The long silence that follows is disquieting, and she can't tell if it's disqueting in a good or a bad way, but even the storm seems to respect it, the rain falling almost politely instead of smacking up the ground, cleaning off the dirt it put on the glass panes, and she only hears herself: her ragged breathing, the failings of her throat, the hurried friction of her fingers on skin.

"It does," he whispers, barely perceptible, and it doesn't matter, because she can't remember what he's replying to, what does what, and then he says, resigned, like an explanation, "I'm listening to you," and she feels a shiver run up her legs before her entire body pulses once, and again and again, shuddering out her orgasm, while Ezra stays on the phone, hearing every word and moan and whimper, _listening_.

The call's over when she lifts the phone to her ear again, but she doesn't call back. It's late, and she's tired, and it doesn't seem like it will do any good. She just texts him thanks for calling and drags herself under the covers; her room's cold now, and she doesn't want the weather or any kind of shame or regret or worry she might have changed things for the worse to steal her chance to get some sleep.

He acknowledges her this time, sends back an apology, a promise that he'll listen to her before he takes any life-changing decisions. It's making light of it, but it really feels like he might let her talk. Talking is better than nothing. Better than many other things.

She smiles a lazy, worn-out smile. It's still raining, soft and sure, soothing, and she can reach him.


End file.
